Junkyard Dogs
by TheOtherMaddHatter
Summary: Derek Hale hasn't been around for a while now, but the moment he steps back into town he brings with him trouble. Specifically, trouble for Stiles and his lovely hideout-turned-fort in the middle of the Hale Junkyard. The thing is, Derek did not come back alone.


**So I had a dream/idea for this AU and decided to give it a whirl. It's going to be a part of a slightly larger series of short one shots, which my good friend may be writing a few of. (I can totally convince her to! And you all can help!)**

**Hopefully everyone's not too OOC or ridiculous, seeing as how I've never written for Teen Wolf and its Characters before. Let me know what you think, and thanks for reading!**

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**Junkyard Dogs**

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The thing is, the Hales are the ones who actually _own_ the Junkyard located about two miles outside of Beacon Hills city limits. Oficially, anyways. Not that Stiles really cares all that much about the ownership title. He's been coming out here to snoop and prowl around for years without anyone saying so much as a word to him, let alone any of the remaining Hales. Back when he and his Dad and his Mom had lived relatively close by. No one said a word then, and no one said a word now, especially now. But things had changed recently, like they so often do, and Stiles knows that he's not alone in the Junk Yard anymore at night. He knows it deep down in his bones, can feel something or someone watching him every time his foot almost slips off the metal scaffolding he'd constructed to balance out his fluctuating weight.

He thinks that Derek Hale, the Hale Family's surviving delinquent biker kid, must have brought the dogs back with him to the yard when he came back from wherever it was he'd been for the past five years. Derek came back to help run the place with his older sister Laura, who gives Stiles the creeps, and his Uncle Peter, who gives Stiles something that he doesn't even have a name for. It's like terror only without proof or the hope of finding it, but way more than just creepy. But Derek puts a whole new category up on Stiles' creeper map, him and the rest of the rag-tag gang he brought back to town with him and the dogs. Based on the footprints he keeps finding closer and closer to where he goes, he imagines that there has to be at least six or maybe seven of them in total. And yet, he's never seen so much as a hair from any of them.

He thinks that they've got to be those big kind, the ones that old world European families used for protection, because he's not actually seen the dogs yet... Just the paw prints. But they're_huge_! (Literally larger than anything he's ever actually seen before, and it starts a little bit of worry up in the corner of his mind on nights like tonight.) Stiles comes up with the name Mastiffs somewhere between climbing the rickety chain link fence and slipping somewhat quietly down the side of the rusted out car that's been here longer than he has. The thing is, he knows that no one has ever seen the dogs, and with dogs as large as what he thinks they are, someone would have to have seen them. But not even Scott, who has been working part time for Dr. Deaton over at the Vet Clinic part time, has seen hide-nor-hair of these mystery dogs. And if anyone would have seen them, Stiles thought the local vet would have.

It didn't matter, really. Dogs weren't going to stop Stiles from coming out here to do what he'd been doing for years now, playing among the scrap heaps and hiding in the old cars at first, slowly turning this place into his own personal hideout and sanctuary. Now he had a fort hidden out here among the piles, almost impossible to find unless you knew what you were looking for, and it was here that Stiles came to hide from the outside world. He'd first started doing it back when his Mom got sick, when they'd lived only just up the road from this place, and he hadn't stopped since. When she finally died he'd spent nearly three days out here by himself, a ten year old lost in his grief among the scraps and junk, before he'd drug himself back to the front gates of the place and asked to call his dad from Peter Hale's office phone. No one had asked him how he'd gotten here or just what he'd been doing in the junkyard to begin with, but Stiles could see the way Peter had looked at him when his Father had turned up to get him. He had turned up a mess, clothes days old and creased, face lined with worry and unimaginable sadness and interrupted stripes of relief. Stiles had just let his Dad pick him up and take him home.

But that was all before they'd moved into town, not that that had ever stopped him from coming out here even then. At first he'd just started riding his bike, taking the long way around to avoid the entrance to the main part of the yard. Instead, taking the side roads to the lesser used back corner of the huge lot where no one would see him or hear him if he knocked something over or tripped and fell. When he finally got his driver's license, he'd begun driving, but ended up parking a ways out and walking a little ways back to the fence so that no one would see his Jeep. Because no one else was allowed here with Stiles, it was his place. Not Scott, not his Dad, no one. Just him.

Now it was him and a bunch of dogs that he's never even seen.

He'd sort of like to keep it that way.

Stiles isn't going to go exploring tonight, he thinks as he settles his backpack down on the ground near his favorite car, despite how perfect the conditions are for it. The moon is up and full, the white face beautiful as it casts a gentle but eerie glow around him and off the dulled metal surfaces the junkyard has to offer. It catches in the car's remaining side mirror and gives off a glimmer as he shimmies into the old thing, causing it to rock only the barest of millimeters at his movements. It's a pretty old car, something from the fifties he thinks, that was once a disgusting green mint color before the weather got a hold of it, build solid and sturdy. The hood had been removed, as well as the engine, but the trunk was still in tact, and the front seat was large and spacious with a steering wheel to match. All the glass is where it should be, and despite the fact that it's outside, it is surprisingly clean.

It doesn't have any doors on the right side, but the seats inside are still cushioned and stuffed and protected from the elements of California. He's got a spare blanket stuffed in the massive glove compartment for when he spends nights out here under the stars, and a flashlight in his backpack at all times. He once tried to leave snacks out here, when he was younger, but they didn't last long because a raccoon had eaten them later after he'd left for the day. Now he just has to bring food if he wants it. But other things, like the blanket and the flashlight, stay out here year round, and tonight Stiles is glad for it. It's a bit chilly for a nearing-summer night, and he's going to use it while he curls up in the car to do some reading.

Except when he goes to get it, it isn't in the glove box. Stiles blinks stupidly down at the compartment like he can't understand where the blanket has gone, one that's been out here for years without problem. No one knows its out here but him, no one knows he's out here but him, but the blanket is still gone. Where, Stiles hasn't a clue, but it's no longer where it is supposed to be and that is what drives him out of the car and further into the junkyard.

He gets maybe all of seven or eight yards from his hideout when he finds the blanket on the ground, just laying there like it had always been there. Weird, because he couldn't understand how it'd gotten all the way out here, and it was just strange that it had without any sort of explanation. Never-the-less, Stiles crouched down to pick it up and as his hands closed over the ratty fabric, he heard it. A deep, low, reverberating growl that shot right through him and made his heart stutter for a minute before he snapped his head up to meet nearly eye-to-eye with a pair of very angry looking blue eyes. Blue eyes that belonged to the biggest animal Stiles had ever seen outside of a zoo or a natural documentary. Eyes that did not belong to a dog. Could not belong to a dog.

"Oh shit..." Stiles heard the curse fall out of his mouth even as he practically froze where he was still half-bent, the blanket in his hands. "Nice, uh, nice doggy... Good doggy."

The monstrous thing snarled and snapped at him, large jaws filled with an impressive display of pointed teeth clicking at him as it did so, the massive mountain of fur rippling. Stiles had no idea what this thing was, because despite looking like what Stiles thought was maybe a wolf, it couldn't be. It just couldn't. Because wolves didn't get that big, wolves didn't have blue eyes, and there was no way in Hell that that was a dog breed, even one that was meant to look like a wolf. It was a massive amount of contradictions with teeth, is what it was. Teeth and fur and claws that were scraping against stray metal bits with an alarming sound.

The wolf-thing planted one big foot in front of another and took another mighty step towards Stiles, who had started shaking, he could feel it. But he couldn't take his eyes off the beast in front of him, even as it continued to snarl and growl and make a variety of sounds that did little to promote safety in Stiles' mind. He knew you didn't take your eyes off a predator, you just didn't, you didn't take your eyes off a charging, threatened dog. He'd learned that from spending time at the Sheriff's Office when he was younger, from sitting in and watching them train the police dogs at the station.

"I was just getting my blanket, see? And I don't know how it got out here, but I'm guessing you had something to do with it, didn't you? Althought I don't have a clue as to how you got into the clove box." Stiles' mouth was getting the best of him again, babble coming out in an impressive stream for lack of anything better to do. "Oh yeah, you big thing you. Got lots of teeth in there, and a nice big jaw, don't cha?"

The dog-wolf-thing kept growling low, snapping again, which caused Stiles to take a step back of his own and nearly trip over his own feet. Oh god, he was going to die here, eaten alive by some mutant wolf monster thing that creepy Peter Hale had probably genetically modified in a dirty, rusted out bath tub behind the office in their broken down house. He knew Peter had been seven kinds of creepy, but he hadn't been expecting science fiction shit to come popping out of the wood work! Or metalwork, as it were.

Stiles' body decided without his brain that it was time to go, and without further ado, turned tail and ran for it, lanky legs propelling him as fast as they could in the opposite direction of the wolf. It probably wouldn't be enough to outrun the beast, but at least he could get a head start, and if he could get close enough to the fence to climb it, he'd be home free. Stiles veered left, away from his fort, towards the nearest place the fence would be that he knew of. If he could only get there and climb it before whatever the Hell that thing was caught up with him, he'd be okay, he'd be fine. Yeah, just fine, just keep running. Keep. Running.

A piercing howl shattered that protective calm his mind had been attempting to produce like a rock shot out of a lawn mower shatters neighbor's windows, the same panicked thought of "oh shit!" racing through Stiles' mind as he continued to run. But nothing prepared him for the second jolt of pure panic when an answering howl followed the original one, this time much closer than he'd have liked it to be, and then another, and another. Closer and closer to him. He was being **hunted**, the animal part of his brain said, and it wasn't by anything friendly.

He'd made it nearly to the fence, the rusty chain links coming in view, only about ten feet away, when something shot out of the dark behind him and knocked him down flat. The weight pinned him solidly to the dirt, and something had a tight hold of his backpack, tugging on it backwards, away from where it was he wanted to go. Stiles struggled, of course he did, but it wasn't doing much good, and every effort he made to wiggle away or to turn around to fight the wolf off were thwarted by heavy paws and a snarling mouth filled with teeth. It had a tight grip on his backpack, so it'd have to go, and with a few flailing tugs, Stiles had it off and was slithering out from under the wolf, back to his feet, and running those last few feet to the fence.

Up the pile of scraps and junk mashed sky-high near it, over the car doors and the dented hoods that made up the base for the pile, using it like a spring board as he launched himself through the air and at the fence. It rattled and shook when he landed, the impact causing it to creek and groan under the strain of his flying weight, and for a moment Stiles was afraid it was going to crumple under him. But it held as he scrambled up the last few feet and over the top, his feet swiping the air as he rolled over the top bar and practically fell to the ground on the other side. He landed and scrambled back as far as he could, wide eyes catching at least four wolves silhouettes against stacks of scrap as they came out of the shadows, plus the one that had him pinned to the ground originally. It was the same one that he'd met eye to eye with a few minutes before, and it was that one that was prowling in front of the fence with his backpack hanging in its jaws. Big and black and terrifyingly close, despite the fence seperating them.

And all of their eyes were glowing. Stiles didn't think it was the moon giving them that glowing light either. Mutant glowing wolves, now Stiles had seen it all.

He ran out of there as fast as his still shaking legs could carry him.

**xXx**

The next day, after he'd debated going back there for his backpack at least twenty times over the course of three hours, his Jeep rattled as he pulled up to the main entrance, parking out front of the little shack of an office building. He'd have to go in the front this time to get his backpack back, and there was no way in Hell he was going up against those mutant wolf-things on his own again. No, he'd demand Peter or Laura Hale go with him, get his shit, and then leave. That was the plan, anyways.

He hadn't so much as opened the door all the way before a large hand was gripping his shoulder and hoodie tightly, pulling him in the door and practically dragging him to the front desk. Stiles turned to look at the body the arm belonged to to find the ridiculously good looking, ridiculously terrifying face of Derek Hale, a scowl firmly planted on his features. Stiles only had a moment to consider the angular tilt of full eyebrows before the hand shook him again roughly.

"Dude, hands off!" Stiles' mouth often worked faster than his brain, and this wasn't any exception. It wasn't doing him any favors here either. "What's the big idea? I'm not an Etch-A-Sketch!"

Derek's stupid hand didn't let up, nor did he answer Stiles' question.

"Yeah, well, I'm here to get my backpack. Your stupid mutant wolf dog things took it off me last night, when they _attacked_ me. Without being prompted, might I add." He scowled and flailed, but only a little bit. "They could have freaking ate me, dude! What are you even doing with animals like that out here? That's ridiculously dangerous, and - Hey, is that my backpack?"

Indeed it was, hanging in Derek's left hand down by his feet, half-hidden by shins and tight jean clad legs. The familiar nylon frayed in all the right place as it brushed against the tiled flooring, the familiar rasping as it was drug at every sharp movement. It was a sight for sore eyes, that's for sure. Stiles grinned.

"Hey, you found it! Thanks man!" He grabbed it from Derek's hands, despite the fact that Mr. Broody-Pants didn't offer it up or give it back to him. "That saves me the trouble of making one of you guys go out there to look for it with me! You're a life saver! Thanks, I owe you one!"

"Stay off our property." Derek growled it, literally _growled_ it, as he grabbed Stiles' front again, dragging him close, up in his face. "And don't come back here. There's nothing here for you here. You're tresspassing."

"Aye, aye Captain!" Stiles nodded fervently, head snapping up and down in time with Derek's fist clenching and unclenching in his shirt front. "Can do, don't come back, got it! Can I go now? I think I need a change of underwear."

Derek practically shoved him out the front door and down the two concrete steps leading back to the few dirt parking spots out front. His Jeep gleamed in the sun where she sat, and as Stiles made his way back to it he couldn't help snorting to himself. He had a mutant wolf beast problem to figure out. To solve even, like some sort of Batman caper!


End file.
